


A Letter To You

by bondageluvr



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drugs, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:29:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bondageluvr/pseuds/bondageluvr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran's letter to his one true love.<br/>MorMor, short, slash, coarse language, mentions of drug use, alcohol, violence, and promiscuous sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Letter To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roseforthethorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseforthethorns/gifts), [LadyCorvidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCorvidae/gifts), [poetofthefall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetofthefall/gifts).



> This was written while I was being irked by my neighbors. Also because I suddenly felt the urge to write after months of literary abstinence. Please enjoy and review.

There is an ache within me that cannot be soothed. I feel it every second of my life. Every breath I take, every unnecessary, drawn-out breath, is void. There is something missing in it. I don’t take satisfaction from oxygen. It disgusts me. The putrid odor of the air makes me want to cry and vomit at the same time. Because it’s not what I want to smell. It’s not what I want in my lungs. I want something else. Something that will satisfy me more than the morphine I have chosen as your substitute. More than the murderous shock of whiskey that lulls me to sleep every night; as my tired brain tries to push out the image of my one true wish. More than the occasional person that ends up in my lap, partaking in my booze and medicine, trying so hard to be your understudy.

You. I only want you. Every evening begins with a shot of alcohol and a glance at your picture which sits in its frame and mocks me with its still beauty. It’s ugly. It doesn’t breathe like you did. It never speaks to me although sometimes, though the haze induced by the infusion of ethanol in my blood, I swear I see its lips move and stretch into a grin. I hate your picture because it isn’t you. It’s worse than you. It preserves the memory that has so long ago ceased to exist. This memory is irrelevant.

I despise irrelevant things.

I have noticed that every part of the day for me starts with shots. Every evening: shots of whiskey. Every midday: shots of morphine. Every morning: gunshots. I go through them mechanically because the routine is all I have to cling to. I press my lips to the mouth of my new lover, the bottle, and it almost tastes the same as the inside of your mouth. The pain the needle leaves behind almost feels like your hands on me: unforgiving, cold, comforting. When the gun recoils it’s almost as if you are stumbling into my arms again, blood seeping through the cotton of your shirt. The shots are my paramours.

I replicate you in my memory thousands of times because there is only one picture of you. I try to remember your smile but all I see is a deadman’s gawping mouth that is waiting to suck my soul out through my aching lungs and into the deepest pits of Hell, where I am headed. I picture you sad but that doesn’t work either because you were never sad. You were depressed, homicidal, destructive. Sadness was too simple for you.

I want your murder. I want it in me.

Your smell lingers on the jacket I found not long ago, stuffed into the corner of our closet. It’s as if you knew I would need it one day: to touch, to kiss, to inhale, to masturbate. I accept your offering every day.

The whores don’t smell like you. They don’t look like you. They aren’t you. That makes it easy for me to let them go. The ones that have your eyes don’t walk away in the morning. I add them to your shrine. I sacrifice them to you because I have nothing left to give.

You took me with you when you left.

I hate you.


End file.
